Give me a break!

There are some truly evil people in this world that must must be hunted down and stopped. Robert Mugabe. Osama Bin Laden. Radovan Karadzic. Nick Griffin. Noel Edmonds.

Above all of these demonspawn, however, is the most evil man ever to draw breath upon this planet:

I've been poorly a lot lately (hence the lack of updates) and I've been stuck at home in front of the telly. And every time I put the bloody thing on, this fat pillock turns up and ruins my day. He doesn't exactly make me feel better. And there's not just one advert now. There are many. Do advertising agencies really think that an annoying advert sells the product? Well, it doesn't sell it to me. In fact, I now steadfastly refuse to use the poxy website. If you 've not seen it, this is how it goes. Two blokes are in a coffee shop, each drinking those big mugs of coffee that cost three quid. These blokes are talking about car insurance. As you do. The one topic the whole nation is talking about is car insurance. At this juncture, the wanker in the picture above leaps up and sings a mock-operatic song about the virtues of a certain price comparison website. He's then accompanied by everyone else in the coffee shop, because they've either a) been convinced by him that his price-comparison website is indeed the best way to save money on your car insurance, or b) they're all suffering from Stockholm Syndrome because Gio Compario (apparently, that's his name. No, it's not Damien. I agree, it's a terrible name. I reckon they should have called him Juan Kerr.) has kept them all hostage in a dungeon underneath the coffee shop and has told them all that it'll be their children next if they don't follow him blindly. After the song and dance, it's all topped off with a god-awful, Bruce Forsyth-quality joke. If these blokes are really that skint that they have to save forty-seven pounds fifty on insurance, why don't they stay out of them bloody rip-off coffee shops and make it at home with a jar of Gold Blend?
It's not just Go Compare either. Every other advert seems to be about insurance or price comparison websites. There's Confused.com, Churchills, Compare The Market, Direct Line, Swiftcover and so on. Where are the adverts actually advertising tangible stuff I might actually want or need?
Actually, I'm probably being unfair to the comparison websites. There are lots of adverts advertising 'tangible stuff' that are just as annoying. There's that McDonald's one with a poetry voiceover about how everyone's 'just passing by', when really it should be saying 'just passing over from coronary disease'. There's that really badly dubbed one (another bugbear of mine; dubbed adverts. Just make your advert in English! If you can't be bothered to spend the extra money on an english version, then I can't be bothered to spend my hard-earned on your poxy bathroom wipes.) about that kid who 'wants to do a poo at Paul's'. Now, if that was me, I'd happily send him off to defecate at Paul's house if his arse stinks that badly. I certainly wouldn't pander to him by buying an air-freshener that disguises the smell of the little shit's shit, just because he told me to. Like my mother used to say (when she was sober, anyway) 'I want doesn't get.' What's also odd about that advert is that the young kid is chinese, and his mother is caucasian. I understand that he might be adopted, but we're not told. And if that is the case, surely it's going to put some people off adopting. They'll watch that and think, 'I was seriously considering giving a home to a poor unfortunate orphan asian baby, but I'm not going to now, because they stink out the house every time they poo. Actually, sod it! I will adopt, but they'll have to go round to Paul's every time they need to park their breakfast.'
A more recent addition to the annoying adverts canon are those new ones for Nintendo starring Ant and Dec. The Wii adverts were crap before when they had the Redknapp family or that bloke from 'My Beautiful Launderette' who isn't Daniel Day-Lewis flogging them to us. As I said, they were crap before, but they've taken on a whole new aura of shiteness. There's a family (all card-carrying members of Equity) playing Nintendo Wii. When I say family, I mean family. There's Nan and Granddad, Mom and Dad, sisters, brothers, sons, daughters, nieces, nephews and cousins, even the fucking milkman and all, probably, all sitting on the sofa playing Mario Kart. This is unrealistic for a start. That scene might happen for twenty minutes on Christmas Day, and that's only because dad wants to see if it actually works seeing he's spent so much money on the bloody thing, and they'll have fun playing on it until Nan demands they watch the Christmas edition of EastEnders (thus killing off any fun, or indeed, Christmas Spirit.)and she has to watch it on the big telly because she's 'only bought her readers'. Like I said, unrealistic. Then, they act all surprised when Ant and Dec walk in, despite the fact that they've just walked in without knocking the door or anything, and also the fact that there's a camera crew filming them playing Mario Kart. Then it ends on a cliffhanger. Ant (or is it Dec?) challenge one of the family to a race on Mario Kart, and then it stops! Who wins?! Go to the nintendo website to find out! Like I give a fuck whether or not one of the fabulous forehead twins wins his go on a video game. It's not even a good cliffhanger, they should've put an anvil on a fraying rope above Ant's (or is it Dec's) head and he has to finish his go before the anvil plummets down and smashes his giant bonce into porridge, like they did with the old Batman TV show. As cliffhangers go, it's probably up there with the following clip:

Makes you wonder how Doctor Who ever got cancelled in the first place, doesn't it?
Anyway, all this ranting has made me ill again. Poxy commercial television. I'm off for a Lemsip. Ta-ra a bit.

Batman vs. Johnny Cash.

This is a clip of Chtistian Bale and Joaquin Phoenix giving an award at the recent IFC Spirit awards. If you're at work, PLEASE BE CAREFUL, as we all know how volatile Christian gets when he's angry. Does he kiss his mother with that mouth? Probably not, he's more likely to smack his mom in the kisser. Allegedly.

Dispirited.

Whilst in the cinema the other night, I had a flash of inspiration; I reckon I've found a way to ease the world's environmental woes with a brand new totally green energy source. If we can somehow harness the energy of Will Eisner's rapidly rotating corpse we won't need to worry about fuel price increases.
Yes, I watching Frank Miller's woeful The Spirit. It's one of the worst movies I've seen in a very long time, and I've recently watched Australia! (Not usually the type of film I go and see at the pictures, but my girlfriend, who works in PR, got us some tickets to a special preview put on by the Australian tourism board and there was free food and beer (there was one woman there putting food from the buffet into her handbag for later. How Birmingham is that?), we even got free popcorn to munch while we were watching the film, and we were given free Australia-shaped luggage tags and an Australia pen. If you've seen Out Of Africa, Gone With The Wind, The African Queen, Last Of The Mohicans, Red River, Pearl Harbour, or Walkabout I wouldn't bother. To says it's derivative and unoriginal and clichéd is an understatement.You can tell it's Australian because Bryan Brown is in it. I think he's been in every Aussie movie since about 1981. It looks pretty, though, and there's lots of shots of Hugh Jackman with his shirt off. If you like that sort of thing. My girlfriend does. I don't, makes me feel inadequate.)

Anyway, The Spirit! This is not Will Eisner's Spirit, this is most definitely Frank Miller's. I'm not the world's biggest Spirit afficionado (I can recommend Will Eisner's Dropsie Avenue trilogy, referred to in the movie, and his Comics and Sequential Art book is a comic artist's bible), but I've read it, and the movie doesn't resemble what I've read at all. It's trying to be cultish and camp and comedic, but fails miserably.
Eisner was a master visual storyteller, groundbreaking and ahead of his time in his day. The film tries to be visually interesting, but if you've seen Sin City, you've seen it already. And Sin City was a far better movie. Probably because it had a proper director (I know Miller had a co-directing credit, but you know Rodriguez was the real guy in charge.) and decent actors (Jessica Alba excluded, of course) and knew when to use its visual flourishes for maximum effect. The Spirit has the same touches, but are used so inconsistently and for no apparent reason. The acting is terrible (Samuel L. Jackson is so hammy as the villain, The Octopus, I was expecting him to grow a little curly tail at the end) there's only the slimmest of plots and the dialogue is really awful.
It's basically an excuse for Miller to film lots of Hollywood starlets with very little on, and while that's an admirable aim, I'd rather he did his perving in his own time. (I was talking to a colleague about this movie, and he said he thought it was shit, but his teenage son loved it. I can guess why!) It's politically suspect in its portrayal of women ( I know it's supposed to be noirish, but this film is very definitely set in the present day, there's mobile phones and computers and at one point a photocopier on display, doesn't really fit with the look of the film) there are references to paedophilia (not very nice for a supposed kids' movie) and dressing Sam Jackson and Scarlett Johansson up as Nazis is a bit politically suspect as well. They're just dressed like that when they're explaining their grand scheme to our tied-up hero. As if we didn't guess they are bad people by that point, Miller tries to hammer it home by making them dress up as Hitler. And the plot's Macguffins, Heracle's Blood and The Golden Fleece, are not things that should be in a movie based on Will Eisner's comic.
As you can tell, I didn't really like it. It's a bad sign when the best thing about a night out at the cinema is the trailers.

Kids Today.

I know this post will make me sound like a moaning old fart, but what the hell is wrong with some young people today? (Please notice that I wrote 'some', not 'all', as I know that there are many great youngsters out there.)
Usually, I'm thinking these negative thoughts about teenagers after every bus journey I take around Birmingham. Usually, it's thoughts like 'Why haven't these wankers heard of headphones? Why do they think everyone wants to listen to their shitty, tinny music? It sounds like Pinky and Perky!'
Today, I'm also hating youngsters because of a bus journey, but it wasn't because of some selfish scrote playing his crappy MP3s out loud on his phone. It was because, today, whilst travelling back from Birmingham city centre on the 97 bus with my two daughters, some little shitbags lobbed a brick at the bus window. The bus window right next to where my youngest daughter was sitting. Luckily, it struck the bottom of the window and bounced off. Any higher, and the rock would've probably come straight through and who knows what would've happened? The window was a write-off, though, and the driver had to make the rest of the journey at a snail's pace so it wouldn't fall out.
What makes these little wastes of spunk tick? Why is this fun? If I ever grab hold of them, it'll stop being fun for them. I'd make them wish their fathers pulled out early, the little fuckers.
Right, rant over.

Too Much To Bear.

This Teddy is insulting Jesus! Let's behead it!!


I think it's absolutely right that Gillian Gibbons, that teacher in the Sudan (It's one of those rare areas with 'the' in front of it, like the Gambia or the Hague. We should have it here, 'The Birmingham' sounds ace! Although, I've just thought of a drawback; It's already the first two words of our two main local papers, asking for 'The The Birmingham Mail' might make you sound like Gareth Gates in the days before he had the speech therapy.) should be found guilty of insulting Islam. She named a teddy bear after Mohammed, and when you think about it, the other most famous bear in the world was called Pooh. So she's calling Mohammed 'Pooh'! And Pooh hung around with a pig! It's an outrage! I can perfectly understand why those people want her to be executed.

Actually, I think it's an absolute travesty that this poor woman is being put through this ridiculous ordeal. It's time these people moved out of the seventh century and joined the rest of us living in the actual real world, where most people would be quite pleased to have a teddy bear named after them, as it's a sign of endearment, not an insult. (Although, the thought of a bear called 'Mick Trimble' might actually frighten the more sensitive child.) Does this mean that anything called 'Mohammed' is an insult? That all those millions of people who have named their sons Mohammed have also insulted the prophet? I could understand it if it was a soft toy of an unsavoury animal, like a snake, or a rat, or a pig, or an alien facehugger (My youngest daughter has a facehugger plush. Yes, it is weird, but she loves it!It's got it's own velcro egg and everything!) It's not as if Gillian Gibbons even named it! Her class are the actual guilty party, yet no-one's demonstrating saying they should whip, or even execute them, are they? Maybe that's because they're not from the decadent West, but it's okay to be our friends whenever there's a famine and they need our help, but if we give a fucking stuffed toy the wrong name- well, we've just stepped over the line!

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying all Muslims are mental superstitious, bloodthirsty headcases. The ones I know certainly aren't. (Well, one might be...) Muslims in this country are trying to shake off the 'They're all terrorists' tag that the Daily Mail and other stupid people label them with. Muslims say that Islam is a tolerant, peaceful religion, and I'm sure that, for the most part, this is true. But this kind of thing happens and knocks their cause back to square one. They should be angrier than anyone that these backward, stupid idiots are willing to spill blood over a teddy bear. For fuck's sake.


Justice has been done! Result! Praise The Lord!!

How to feel up women in shopping centres and get away with it.

This week, after being dumped (it's happening so often lately I may start saying 'splitting up with women' is a hobby of mine!) I was feeling down, totally lacking in self-esteem and confidence. But ITV tonight has shown me the solution! All I need is the right bra! After a trip to La Senza tomorrow I can face the world with a smile again, because I know my 'womble's noses' are properly supported!
I can't believe Trinny and Susannah strung out the fact that most women wear the wrong size bra to fill an hour's worth of telly. I was about to eat my dinner, and needed some shit to watch while I was ingesting, so I thought a programme about tits the ideal choice. It was basically an excuse for these two harridans to go round feeling women up in shopping centres. (It's better than my usual excuse, anyway!) At one point the skinny one (Trinny? I'm not absolutely sure. They don't always stand in alphabetical order like Ant and Dec do.) even put on a prosthetic pair of tits and did exercises and came to the conclusion that it felt strange for her. Well, I'm not a so-called style expert, but even I know that if I tried on a fake pair of plastic tits and jumped around in a park, it would feel pretty fucking strange to me and all!
The fact that I turned a programme about breasts off halfway through also feels strange. Kinda unnatural. Isn't prime-time telly these days a load of old shit, eh?

(This picture came from here. This site is brilliant. The art is so good I may now have to hang up my ink brush for good, as I have witnessed a perfection I cannot hope to match. And I've spent the best part of this year drawing Ray Winstone! I think I may have to start sketching with biros again. I used to do it all the time. This site has re-lit my fire!)

Stags.

I remember, a few years back, stag nights just consisted of going out with your mates, getting pissed up, maybe getting a stripper involved and then possibly rounding it off with some enforced nudity and lamp-post bondage for the unfortunate groom-to-be. These days, the stag night has evolved into the stag weekend and this involves going away to a strange town for two days just to do the things I mentioned above. Is this progress?

My brother (our Marc, the middle one) is getting married on Friday, and I've just got back from his stag weekend down in Cardiff. It seems everyone else getting married this week had the same idea. Cardiff has stag and hen parties coming out of its ears. Whoever said all brides are beautiful obviously didn't see some of the brides-to-be I witnessed. Bloody hell. In one bar, there was one extremely rough-looking obese woman wearing L-plates and a veil (so I assume she was the bride to be) carrying a giant inflatable penis, 'dancing' and singing 'Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?'. The irony was obviously lost on her. Unless she was genuinely too warm.



The plan was to get there on Friday, have a few drinks, but take it steady, as the seven of us in the party had paintballing to do on Saturday. That plan went AWOL. We got wrecked. Some members of the party got told off by the hotel's management for making too much noise when we rolled in at about 4.30 in the morning. (not me, I'm a good lad, and anyway, I was too busy being passed out on my hotel room's bathroom floor!) So our Marc diplomatically sorted the situation by taking off his belt and hitting the transgressor with it while saying "Shut the fuck up, or they'll chuck us out, you daft cunt!" Henry Kissinger has nothing on my brother.



Saturday morning, we all get up feeling as rough as a badger's ballbag, so we decide to get a fry-up in a local greasy spoon on the way to the paintball. I didn't feel like the full English, as I was still feeling the effects of spewing my ring up the night (morning?) before, so I had a bacon butty and about four cups of tea. It seemed to work, as I felt okay afterwards, and the rest of the lads seemed to enjoy their fry-ups, and we all went on to the paintball site. Now, on Saturday morning, the weather was bad. It had been raining continuously since we got to Cardiff, so the paintball site was now one big quagmire, if your feet didn't sink in all the way up to your knees, you just slipped and fell on your arse instead. I didn't have any sturdy footwear, I just had a pair of Converse Chuck Taylors which gradually got destroyed as the day went on. I've not done any paintballing for years, not since I was a teenager, and I was a lot fitter in those days! I've discovered something else I'm rubbish at. The whole day I got shot to fuck. I looked like a plasterer's radio by the end of the day. The crappy weather didn't help visibility, as the masks we had to wear were either steamed up, covered in water or splattered with mud and paint. Also not helping the day, was another stag party from Scotland, who took it all a bit seriously and tried to give us tactics. We decided to take their tactics and stick them where the sun doesn't shine (which was Cardiff, that weekend!) and just basically run like fuck and shoot everyone you saw. It seemed to work as our team won quite handsomely at the end of the day.



Like I said, my shoes were destroyed, so I decided to bin them. We all drove back to the hotel, and we decided we couldn't walk in with our muddy feet (none of us were sober enough to think of bringing a change of shoes) so all seven of us walked through the hotel lobby in our sopping wet socks, and we all got admiring glances from the other guests because of our Brummie sartorial elegance. When I got back to my room, I took of my shirt and surveyed the damage. I looked like ED-209 had had a go at me for not complying within 30 seconds. I had livid red circular welts all over my body. Arms, chest, stomach, back, arse, legs were all covered in bruises. I looked like Superted's best mate.

After we all had our afternoon shushes (shit, shower, shave) we went to the Walkabout bar around the corner and watched the Villa play Newcastle on the telly. How Welsh was that? Standing in an Australian bar watching the Villa on the telly. We could never do stuff like that back in Brum. Hang on, that's EXACTLY how I spent the previous Saturday afternoon here in Birmingham! The whole weekend was like that-we had drinks in O'Neill's, Rococo, Edwards, Walkabout and The Prince Of Wales- and they all look the same as their Brummie counterparts on the inside, why the hell did we come to Cardiff?! Still, the Villa played well and should've won, but it was nil-nil and a point at St. James's Park is always a good one. Also, Wales were playing Argentina in the rugby at the Millennium Stadium, so Cardiff was full of drunk Welsh rugby supporters. I had on a T-shirt that said Empire Strikes Back on it, and was told by a drunk Welshwoman , while I was outside having a cigarette that she'd never seen a Star Wars film. She told me this about six times. "I've never seen a Star Trek movie either", she added as a little epilogue. How interesting!

After the match, we decided to get some din-dins because we all agreed that going out with a virtually empty stomach was what done us in on Friday. The noisy fuckers who nearly got us all chucked out all had McDonald's, but me, my brothers, and my brothers' mate Liam decided we'd have some proper food, so we went to an Italian restaurant and filled up on chicken and pasta. Our stomachs properly lined, we went back to our hotel, got changed and went out on the town.

The bit of Cardiff we were in was full of hen and stag parties. They stood out because most of them were in fancy dress. We couldn't be arsed with all that shite, as it makes you a target for other arseholes, and you also look like a prick. The stag parties tended to dress up in afro wigs, for some reason, whereas the hens tended to go with a theme, I saw women dressed up as pretend policewomen, sailors, gangsters, pyjama parties, and in one case, Quasimodo (though I'm beginning to think now that wasn't a costume!) my favourite group of hens, nerd that I am, were the group dressed up as Superheroines- Batgirl, Wonder Woman, Supergirl and Generic Superhero Woman whose costume I didn't recognise. I was willing to try and get Batgirl to slide down my Batpole, but the party told me to hurry the fuck up as we were going to a titty bar. It's a stag night, there HAS to be naked ladies, apparently.

Typical Brummies, we haggled to get a fiver knocked off the entrance fee to the lapdancing bar, and eventually, they let us in at a fiver off. This seemed a bit stupid in hindsight as we spent shitloads of money in there. Apparently, we bought thirteen bottles of Champagne in there, at over thirty quid a go. The ladies in there seemed to like us (besides the fact we were spending lots of money) as we were just in there to have a laugh and take the piss and not take it seriously as some of the other blokes in there, who think the girls really want to dance for them, and they joined in with our piss-taking of each other. Apparently, we spent more in there than Robbie Fowler (now a striker for Cardiff City) did, when he went in the other week. At the end of the night, when they let us out, it was through another nightclub, and could we fuck find our way out. It took us about half an hour to find an exit, but we managed it. While me and my youngest brother were finding the way out, my other brother, the groom-to-be, managed to stop one of our party getting glassed because the twat said something he shouldn't have. This rounded the night off superbly, because Marc was fuming and told his mate exactly what he thought of his behaviour. This nearly led to another punch up, but it was all settled fairly amicably, and we all went to bed for about three hours.

We left at about Twelve on Sunday, and the trip home was fairly uneventful, except for when our car hit the kerb the moment we got back into the Brum. We swerved into the other side of the road, and if anything was coming the other way it would have been extremely serious, but nothing was, so we were okay. The reason for the driver's collision with the kerb? "I was looking at that field over there." That's okay then. Worth dying for, that.

So anyway, I'm back now, covered in bruises and stiff as a board and dehydrated, but at least I'm still alive!

Mindless Scribble.

Another update from the Bus Stop From Hell. It's the bus stop situated outside the 'Custard Factory', which is supposed to be an arts complex but these days resembles a collection of empty shops. I've told you before about the mystery graffiti artist who scrawls racist shite all over the bus stop, especially if the advert on the bus stop has a non-white face. In fact, he once defaced an advert for 'Magnum' ice cream by writing 'N*****R SPUNK' on it. It just had a picture of the ice cream on it. I think the cretin was offended by it being dark chocolate. Generally, though, he just scribbles shite like 'Fuck Islam' and draws swastikas on the windows. Anyway, this has made the idiots from the other side (of the race divide, I mean, not the afterlife) write their shite on and around the bus stop. For example : "In Muslim countries there are no homos or lesbians and therefore no AIDS" (Strange to see the word 'therefore' in graffiti) and 'IN YEARS TIME NO WHITES WILL SURVIVE' (of course, 'whites' has been scribbled out and the 'P' word put in, only to be scribbled out again and the original 'whites' put back on', only for that to be scribbled out, and so on)
Anyway, during this Great War of scribble between two idiot factions there is one message that's like the Christmas Day football match. In the middle of all this race hate is the legend: 'BILLIE PIPER WANKER' ,which is so fantastically nonsensical and irrelevant compared to the rest of the drivel written there that I have to smile every time I see it. I'm funny like that. What's not funny is the fact that these idiots who think like that are out there, and the multi-cultural fully integrated happy town that Brum sells itself as is a myth.

Mick Smash!!

I had to change to New Blogger today, it's not 'Beta' anymore, so it must be 'Gamma'. Using 'Gamma' must've irradiated me, changing my DNA, and unleashed my inner monster.

For example- Today, I'd finished inking a page of my strip ( Which consisted mainly of a werewolf having his brains blown out through the front of his mush. I love drawing exploding heads!) and, once the ink was dry, I started rubbing out the pencil marks that are still visible. My rubber (Eraser, if you're a Yank. Rubbing prophylactics on my artwork is not something I've tried yet, but some people might say it can't make it any worse. I hate those people.) decided to eat big chunks out of the bristol board and leave grey smears all over the place. I changed rubbers (the new one wasn't ribbed.) and this wouldn't get rid of the smears. My pupils turned white, my shirt ripped (but only among the seams, though) My skin and hair turned green, my shoes burst, I grew bigger( and, no matter how big I grew, my trousers stayed on, as the hulk never, ever shows his big green cock.) and with inhuman strength, I threw my rubber at the stereo, and with a guttural, almost inhuman voice, I shouted "For Fuck's Sake!!"

After a while, I found myself waking up in a stranger's back garden, behind their bins, with just a pair of tatty ripped jeans on. I pinched a shirt from their washing line ,(which, as always, is dry. I'd love to see Dr. Banner put a soaking wet shirt on, lose his rag and have to pinch another shirt a bit later on.) came home, and sorted out the picture by using a completely new rubber (non-spermicidal) and turning the ripped bit into another piece of flying brain.

It's like Johnny Rotten said, anger is an energy.

Sunday, Bloody Sunday!!

For the past fortnight or so, my grandfather has been seriously ill, so a lot of my life recently has been spent travelling to and from the hospital. My last visit was on Sunday, which was two days ago. I wished I'd stayed in bed.
I was short of funds, so I thought that I'd go to the cashpoint en route. The fucker ate my card. I was absolutely potless, so I had to drag my poorly ( though, admittedly, not as poorly as Gramps) partner, the mighty Miss Maus out of her sickbed to come to the city centre and get me some money. After I met up with her and got some funds, we decided to grab a bite of lunch before I carried on with my quest to see my Granddad. On the way to some grub, what appeared to be the last surviving archaeoptyryx shat on both shoulders of my coat. Swearing profusely, I nipped to a pub to get rid of the excrement, which funnily (and runnily) enough, was two colours. The shite on my right shoulder was a chocolatey brown. The shite on my left shoulder was white. Maybe it was two different prehistoric flying reptiles. So, I'm in the toilet of a public house, washing my coat (whilst still wearing it) a good lather of hand soap on each shoulder, with Sunday afternoon drinkers coming in wondering: a) What is that wanker having a wash with his clothes on for? and b) Can you smell pterodactyl turd?
Anyway, one outwear ablution later, I finally get on the bus to the hospital.

When I get there, my granddad's name isn't on the wall. Fearing the worst, I ask the staff nurse what's happened to him. She tells me that he was sent home on the day before. Whilst I was glad that he was well enough to go home, I was fuming that no fucker could be arsed to inform me of the fact. I'd travelled all that way, lost my debit card, and got shat on by an airborne ostrich for absolutely fuck all. Then I remembered that getting crapped on is supposed to be lucky! So, whilst on the bus home, I excitedly got the unchecked lottery ticket out of my wallet. I got the winning numbers on my mobile phone, and would you believe it?

Fuck all.